The Toothpaste
by Faba
Summary: A Michael/Billy short one-shot. Cute, I think. A bit fluffy. Quite innocent. Starting and ending with toothpaste. Complete? Probably. Maybe not. Rated "T" . . . because I always rate "T".


Just seen the musical--got inspiration to write more Billy Elliot. I feel I have better hold of the characters than I did before.

If you like it please review, if you don't . . . wellllllll . . . please review. Doesn't matter, really! :)

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Somehow I felt like Billy was getting smarter everyday—like some bloody teacher. He was only dancing, and that shouldn't have affected anything really besides his physical body . . . but presently he was making me feel very stupid. Which made me feel stupid. Maybe because I was.

"Michael!" Billy didn't look too happy.

"Yes, Billy?"

"What are you doin'!"

I looked at the toothpaste squirted all into a delicate, swirling pattern in the sink. Sure, it was Billy's house and maybe I oughtn't have done it, but I thought it looked quite pretty. Billy didn't seem to think so, and I felt like some naughty puppy. . . .

"Um. . . ." I smiled innocently at Billy, who could only but stare at the sink . . . like he'd forgotten his mind somewhere. He quickly found it, though.

"Michael, if me Dad sees this he'll give me a right beating!" Billy started pawing out the toothpaste in large handfuls and tossing it in the rubbish bin. I carefully wiped my hands on a white towel that hung nearby. It was white, too; I hoped it wouldn't show through.

"I'll have to go buy more now!" He spun around, then focused on me. "And you're comin' with me."

I didn't hardly understand. Normal people kept more than one tub of paste in their toilet. But then, Billy's family had always been peculiar—of course I couldn't say mine wasn't. We were just all one big mess of "peculiar"s stuck inside some peculiar strike, weren't we?

I stared at Billy. "Why?" I asked quickly.

"Because you got me into this!"

Billy grabbed my quite lanky upper arm with strong, tight fingers. It made my heart beat a little faster just to think he was touching me, but I fought to shut it up. After all, it was only on the arm. I was frankly surprised he even dared to venture two feet into my personal space—after the whole "kiss" incident. I had figured there would be a very profound bubble of space between us at all times. I had obviously figured wrong.

Suddenly, I remembered something. "But I gotta get home before me dad does—!"

Billy rolled his eyes and veered us toward his front door, through the kitchen where normally his father and brother Tony would have been eating or aught, if they hadn't been out traipsing around for the good of the strike, of course. Today they happened to be doing just that, and the only sound was the tap of our footsteps and that of my own bloody heartbeat still fluttering from Billy's slight touch. I hoped he couldn't hear.

Outside he finally let go and shoved his hands into his pockets, not even daring to say what I knew he was thinking. His hands were cold, but of course he didn't want a repeat offense of that one night on Christmas day. The event was still fresh in our minds, and we both made a silent vow not to revisit it . . . which I was quite content to break.

Feeling quite daring, I slipped my hand into his pocket carefully and squeezed his bare hand, pulling it out into the open. Christ, it was freezing, and I tightened my grip. Billy obviously didn't have very good circulation. I scooted closer as we walked.

Billy stopped walking and stared at me funny. I knew once more what he was thinking, but I didn't say anything.

I took off my scarf, wrapped it around his hands and muttered for him to hold it, then let go. Billy didn't take his stiff gaze off of me. Then, with a quick nod, I tore off down the snowy streets, took one left, then pushed my way into the pharmacy.

"How much for a tub of this here paste?" I set the tube on the counter. It was the same toothpaste Billy had had at his house.

The woman gave one look at me and said, "Two pound, twenty."

"That's murder," I said, bewildered.

"Gimme the money, lad, or be on your merry way," she said irritably. A cloud of smoke filled my face as she blew out, the cigarette she'd been smoking held idly in her left hand.

"Fine, but it's a damned lot for paste that cleans your teeth!" I tossed a two pound coin and twenty pence on the counter, took the toothpaste, a went quite well 'on my merry way'. People bugged me, but never Billy. Almost never. Others did, because they were stupid. Others did, because they didn't understand. Not my Billy.

Billy was still waiting for me.

"Here, take your toothpaste." I threw it at him. "Cost me a fortune—basically all I had. Think of it as a present." I adjusted my coat, and when I looked up Billy had put the toothpaste away. Where, only God knew.

"Thanks," he said, and suddenly grinned.

"You're welcome. . . . Now give us a hand." I held mine out. "You owe me."

For a moment, Billy was quiet, then he put his own hand out. I grabbed it, smiled, he returned the favor, and we walked home like that.

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Michael=Love.


End file.
